


to the tune of tchaikovsky

by shotofvanilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ballet Dancer Dean, M/M, Piano Player Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:06:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotofvanilla/pseuds/shotofvanilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cas plays the piano for Dean, a ballet dancer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the tune of tchaikovsky

**Author's Note:**

> A (very very late) birthday present for the lovely [Anja](http://harustiel.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Also posted on [tumblr](http://youreyesarelikestarlightnow.tumblr.com/post/73873561026/a-horribly-horribly-horribly-late-birthday-fic-for).

Castiel is still shivering as he climbs the stairs in the dance studio, cursing and removing his gloves in order to open the door properly. He has half-formed apologies already on his tongue as he shoves his way through the doorway, struggling to juggle all his bags and shake the snow from his person.

Dean's already there, wrapped in a tight pair of gray leggings with his slippers already on, one leg extended as he stretches on the barre. He turns to glance over his shoulder when he hears Cas come in, the muscles in his back shifting in a way that makes Cas shuffle and blush a little. He still can't help but stare, and it's not like Dean's particular choice of clothing leaves a lot to imagination. He's just glad Dean's wearing a thin white shirt tucked into his pants this time, rather than a leotard, not that it makes much of a difference.

"Dean, I'm sorry I'm late," he says, still brushing the snow off his clothes so that he doesn't make a dripping mess across the floor.

"No problem, Cas." Dean smiles as he glances over before bending his back first backward and then forward toward his extended foot. "I'm glad you made it. I was getting worried that I'd have to practice to the recorded stuff again." He grunts a little as he lowers his leg and rolls his neck. "I'm almost done here, and then I just have to do some center work. You don't mind waiting a bit until we actually start, do you?"

Cas doesn't roll his eyes, but only just. Dean asks him the same question almost every time they practice together, and his answer is always the same. "Of course not."

"Thanks. Actually, do you mind playing something while I finish warming up? Anything you want'll be fine."

Cas nods as he crosses the wide, open space of the dance floor towards a tiny upright piano tucked away into the corner. He takes his time putting his bags down and getting organized, because it's routine and methodical and gives him something to focus on instead of Dean and all his six feet of firm muscle and flexibility and grace. Cas feels incredibly inadequate just being in the same room as him, remembering how he tripped over his own socks in his kitchen in the morning and almost fell down a flight of stairs while leaving his apartment.

What does it matter though? He and Dean have never run in the same social circles, have never exchanged more than a few polite words with each other before Dean asked to work with him. He's just a quiet little music theory/piano performance double major who just happens to play piano for the best danseur at the university. He doesn't even know if Dean is interested in men, and if he is, that just adds to the hundreds of people Castiel already has to compete with for his attention. Dean must have dozens of offers, even just at school, and sooner or later one of them will catch his attention: sweetly beautiful photographers he can pose for, or quirky artists who can catch his movements in charcoal and paint.

Cas has no illusions about where he stands and what he is: an accompanist. The background music. Nothing more. And he's okay with that.

Rather than dwell on such thoughts, he turns his attention to the music. The piano in the studio is ancient but beautiful, with yellowing-ivory keys and a slightly creaky lid. By the time he pulls out the binder of ballet music he's collected and selects a Mendelssohn piece, Dean's moved from the barre to the middle of the floor. The piece he's chosen is one he knows more or less by heart, so rather than read it he gets to watch Dean from over the top of the piano instead. He's still not familiar with most of the ballet terminology, even after the couple of months he's worked with Dean, but he knows some of the basics: pliés, jetés, glissades, and pirouettes. After that though, his ballet knowledge is kind of exhausted.

He watches Dean dance, the precision he has in every movement, the way every leg and arm is placed carefully and flawlessly. When he jumps, toes pointed and arms extended, he seems to hang weightlessly in the air for a second. He completes a series of quick turns across the room, finishing a combination facing Cas' piano, smiling brightly. There's a bright blush of energy in his skin and an almost imperceptible sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he looks so beautiful Cas' finger slips and accidentally hits an awkward flat. The sound seems to echo, horribly off-key, throughout the room, and Cas feels himself flush self-consciously. He ducks his head and keeps on playing the final measures of the piece, concentrating on the keys even though Dean's stopped dancing.

He finishes the piece with no grand flourish, letting the notes trail off into the air. Dean is inexplicably still standing at the piano, until Cas asks softly, "Are you done warming up?"

Dean blinks and shakes his head a little, and Cas reminds himself that the redness on Dean's cheeks is from exertion, not embarrassment.

"Yeah, yeah I think I'm good," Dean turns away quickly, padding across the room back to his dance bag to grab a bottle of water. Cas resolutely does _not_ check out Dean's ass when he bends over. Absolutely not.

He flips through the binder and shuffles through sheet music until he finds the Tchaikovsky piece Dean is using. After Dean takes his starting position, takes a deep breath, and then nods, Cas immediately delves into the music, hands dancing over the familiar keys.

He doesn't want to screw up like he did earlier, and so he tries keep his focus on every note, paying attention to the exact counts and proper crescendos. He tries to play the piece as perfectly as absolutely possible, even if it's just a practice and no one is watching.

For all his best efforts, he still can't keep himself from peeking over the lid of the piano to watch Dean dance.

Much of Dean's routine he has memorized, or at least basically outlined. He knows how Dean's timed his spins and his jumps, when he chooses to extend his leg or hold it still. Everything is choreographed down to the minute details, to the angle of his head and the position of his fingers.

The point is, however, that Cas knows Dean's program so well that he recognizes when Dean makes a change to it, like he does now: after his second-to-last combination, before the big finish, he angles himself slightly off center, so that his final pirouette, rather than facing the wall-sized mirrors and the imaginary audience, is turned toward Cas' corner instead. It doesn't change much of the program, to be honest, and it would be almost unnoticeable to the casual viewer.

All it does change, really, is that right before Dean strikes his final pose, his eyes slide straight to Cas', and there's too much of a quiet passion there and Cas' fingers slip again, the piece ending on disjointed, jangled chords. There's no more music he can use to cover it up, and so the notes hang there so awkwardly that Cas wonders if he could bury himself in his own mortification.

"I'm sorry," he says instead. He kind of feels the urge to flee, make up some excuse about work or an essay and leave Dean to practice the rest of the night without live accompaniment, but he can't because he promised Dean he'd help him and he knows Dean still has the studio booked for at least another half hour.

Coming out of his pose and walking over to lean against the piano, Dean meets his eyes evenly, concerned. "You okay?"

Cas coughs and pulls off his beanie to run a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just...tired, with work and school, you know? That's all." He tries to smile ruefully at Dean, who only continues to look worried.

Dean looks away for a moment to rub the back of his neck. "You know, Cas, I'm really grateful you're doing this for me, because I prefer practicing to live music rather than that recorded stuff, but--look, I know you've got a lot going on, playing at all those fancy Italian restaurants and with your classes and all, so--I mean, I don't want you to, but if you feel the need to, I don't want you to feel _obligated_ to keep playing for me or anything. It's okay if you want to stop or pull back or something." He begins to lean away, hands sliding across the top of the piano.

"No, no, no, I didn't mean-" Cas scrambles to his feet, a hand shooting out to close over Dean's. He nearly trips over the piano bench, and his other hand knocks the binder of sheet music from its perch.  He flinches when he hears it hit the floor. "I love it. Working with you, I mean. And I don't--you shouldn't think--I don't want to stop it. Unless you want to. But I'm fine--I'm good, actually. Really good. Um." He coughs and pulls his hand away slowly, painfully aware of just how long he's had it resting on top of Dean's. "Do you want to run it again?" he asks, leaning over to pick the fallen binder up from the floor.

When he looks up, Dean has an unreadable look on his face, his eyes fixed somewhere over the piano bench.

"Dean?"

Shaking his head, Dean's eyes snap back to Cas'. "Sorry, what?"

"The dance. Do you want to run it again?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. That'd be great."

The rest of the practice passes without incident. Dean works out the kinks he finds in the choreography and focuses on smoothing out different parts of the dance, managing to run through it fully once more time. The little change he had made earlier, the one that enabled him to finish facing Cas rather than the mirrors, doesn't happen again, and Cas tries to ignore the strangely disappointed feeling he gets at that.

When they finish, Cas quietly starts packing away his music while Dean starts his cool down routine. By the time he's done, Dean's removed his slippers and is doing easy stretches on the floor, his shirt clinging to him like a second skin.

"I'll see you next Friday then?" he asks, one hand on the door.

"Next Friday, yeah," Dean says, turning his head and smiling sideways as he leans forward to touch his toes.

Cas smiles back and pushes open the door. The rest of the studio is unsurprisingly quiet so late in the evening, and the only real sounds he can hear are his own breathing and his feet on the carpeted hallway floors. Faintly, he can hear some ballet music floating from a deeper part of the building, and he's unable to keep the grin off his face when he thinks of how it reminds him of Dean.

The dance rooms are actually on the second floor of the building, the first being a sort of lobby people sit and make appointments in. Cas turns and starts heading down the stairway, dreading the cold outside, the snow visible from the windows.

When he reaches the ground floor, about to exit onto the campus quad, there's a shout from behind him.

"Cas!"

It's Dean, rushing down the stairs without even a pair of shoes on yet, his socked feet thumping on each step. "Cas, wait--"

He slips on the last carpeted step, feet flying out from under him. The look of shock on his face before he lands on his ass is such that Cas is unable to completely smother the laughter bubbling on his lips, even as he rushes forward to help Dean up.

"Are you okay?" he asks, trying to suppress a smile.

Looking sore and embarrassed, Dean takes Cas' proffered hand and pulls himself up. "Yeah, I'm fine. Always seem to do that on these stairs."

"Really?"

Dean nods at Cas' confused look. "I'm always taking spills, according to my friend's at least. When I'm not on the dance floor, that is."

"I didn't know--I never would have guessed, I mean. You always look so...," graceful, perfect, _beautiful_ Cas thinks. "Good out there, I guess," he finishes lamely.

If possible, Dean seems to blush further. "Yeah, I mean, I guess. It's easier out there, I think."

Cas hums in response, unable to think of anything to say for a moment. "So, you had something you wanted to tell me?" 

"Oh, yeah, I just..." Dean fumbles for words and looks down at his feet for a moment. "Do you want to go out with me?"

Cas hates to admit it, but he's pretty sure his jaw actually does drop open. "What?"

Seeing the expression on Cas' face, Dean backpedals quickly. "Or not. That's fine. I was just thinking, I mean, I know you work a lot at those coffee shops and whatnot, but I never seem to see you eat anything. Not that I watch you or something, because that'd be creepy. But I was just wondering if you wanted to get dinner or coffee sometime. With me. But you don't have to if you don't want to, I get that and I just-"

"I'd love to, Dean." Cas reaches out to squeeze Dean's shoulder, laughing a little in disbelief.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Dean smiles brightly, his eyes light like when he's dancing in the studio, and Cas can't help but smile widely in return. "Great! I'll, um. call you I guess? Later tonight? Or tomorrow if that's too soon, I'm sure you--"

"Tonight is fine."

"Right. Tonight. I'll call you."

"Please do."

He does.

 


End file.
